“I’m working on that novel.”

“I’m making that videogame.”

“I’m writing that screenplay.”

At least one of the above *has* to happen before I’m 35, or I’ll never forgive myself.

Ask me anything. As long as it’s not about maths.

The last dwarf is a phenomenal vignette, but the city built inside the skeleton of an enormous crab is my touchstone when I’m trying to sell the game to someone.

God, I miss that Bethesda. What happened to ‘em?

Ask me anything. As long as it’s not about maths.

I need to learn brevity.

Ask me anything. As long as it’s not about maths.

Peggle has worked beautifully on two nongaming girlfriends so far. Never doubt Peggle’s power.

Ask me anything. As long as it’s not about maths.

I am often startled and usually gnomic. And always unphotogenic.

Ask me anything. As long as it’s not about maths.

Far Cry, Coburg, Germany, circa 2002. Being very politely asked by a nice German developer to please stop repeatedly shooting an NPC in the crotch and giggling at the physics. Podium dancing to vanilla ice. Incredible beer. My first encounter with a Republican. A man in a catsuit sadly showing a room full of people his genital piercing. Being dared to ask the Yerli brothers if they could possibly include monkey knife-fights in the game. Feeling excited about videogames.

Ask me anything. As long as it’s not about maths.

Good writers find a way: opportunity remains. Just don’t fall prey to thinking that magazines are the way in: they’re beautiful ghosts, sure, but they’re nonetheless ghosts.

Ask me anything. As long as it’s not about maths.

‘Like’ doesn’t come into it. It’s everything a capital should be, for better or worse. Britain without it would be impossible. I suspect I won’t be in it for much longer, however.

Ask me anything. As long as it’s not about maths.

To paint my car yellow, after playing GTA 3 and thinking the yellow cars looked nicest.

Ask me anything. As long as it’s not about maths.